Murder at Teatime (29 page)

Authors: Stefanie Matteson

BOOK: Murder at Teatime

9.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

“They turned it down. But the Board of Selectmen is asking Chartwell to submit a new plan for a scaled-down development.”

“But didn’t the Chartwell people say they wouldn’t go for a smaller development—that it was all or nothing?”

“That’s what they said. But the selectmen did some checking around. They think Chartwell’s bluffing, and they probably are.”

“Will the town approve a scaled-down development?”

“I think there’s a pretty good chance of it.”

So, she mused, the big corporation thought that they could put one over on the country hayseeds, but the hayseeds had seen through their scheme. The wisdom of the people had triumphed: they would be voting to preserve the past, but they would be voting for the future too.

“I expect Marion will go along with it, despite her father,” Tracey continued. “She’s left Chuck, you know.”

Charlotte looked at him in surprise.

“Ayuh. She went down to Boston right after the Fourth. The wife and I have volunteered to take care of the boy for the rest of the summer while she gets settled in an apartment. We’re glad to have him. He’s not such a bad sort.”

“I suppose it’s for the best.”

“She’s never been very happy with Chuck.”

The catalyst was probably the suspicion that Chuck was to blame for her father’s death, thought Charlotte. She’d probably realized then how little she really cared for him. Charlotte imagined her in a new apartment, playing her piano until the sparkle came back to her eyes.

“What will happen to Fran?”

“She’s already talking with a realtor about buying an old farm with her inheritance. It belongs to one of the people who’ve been growing herbs for her, so she won’t have to start out from scratch again with her herb business.”

So the Thornhill murder had a happy ending for Fran as well. Maybe Kitty wasn’t so far off base with her rose-tinted glasses after all.

Emerging at the rear of Ledge House, she was struck anew by the stunning beauty of the view. The day was crisp, with a clear, high sky and a bold sun. The outer islands glittered like emeralds. Everything looked neat and clean, as if Mother Nature had donned her finest in celebration of the solution of the murder. Charlotte felt in a celebratory mood as well: she was delighted that she would be working again—she was addicted to the feeling of accomplishment that comes at the end of a good day’s work—but she had discovered that acting wasn’t the only route to that sweet feeling: helping to restore order to this minute world of pure perfection had its satisfactions, too.

At the top of the Ledges they stopped to rest in the rustic gazebo overlooking the channel. As they sat down in one of the weathered cedar chairs Charlotte noticed the line from
Paradise Lost
that was carved on the lintel: “A happy, rural seat of various views,” and thought with pleasure of the world-weary tourists who would replenish their spirits here. Maine’s environmentalists criticized outsiders for taking from the State more than they gave. But what they failed to realize was that the currency of Maine life would only retain its value if it were circulated by people with new blood and new ideas. Like the gulls that fed on both herring and shish kebab, the people of Maine would have to adapt if they were to survive.

Thornhill had sensed this. However much his vision had been corrupted by his cupidity and his arrogance, he had built the Ledges in the spirit of working hand in hand with nature for the benefit of mankind. The environmentalists’ backward-looking notion of nature as a temple inviolate was contradictory to the progressive ideal in which he’d built his beautiful garden. The stone-paved terraces to which he had devoted thirty years of toil—each stone hewn from the native pink granite and set carefully into place—were a monument to excellence, to the values that this man who had loved mayflowers had tried and failed to uphold. She was sure that Marion would see to it that this was the spirit in which the development would be built.

She thought of Kitty and Stan. Despite the fact that they had fought the development, she expected that a scaled-down development would suit them just fine. They would still have their minute world of pure perfection, but they would no longer be marooned on it like house sparrows on a boat at sea. It would lose something of its mystery: there would no longer be that sense of Gilleys hurtling down the centuries. But what it lost in mystery, it would gain in comfort. Their island would become a suburb—no more waiting for the tide to turn to drive into town. They would have other couples to play bridge with. Stan would even have his own golf course. Fran had seen it in the coals: “Stay in your present house,” she had said. “It will bring you good luck.”

Under her arm, she carried Daria’s painting of the Ledges, the painting that Stan had showed her in his studio. Daria had given it to her as a momento. For Daria it was an unpleasant reminder of her near-fatal night on the channel, but for Charlotte it was a reminder of the values expressed by the Ledges. She could see the masons already at work on the stone monument to Thornhill on a terrace below. That he had built the Ledges was expiation enough in her mind for his sins. And now their beauty would no longer be “buried and hid from the sight of common men,” to use the words from
Der Gart
, but freely available to enrich and ennoble the lives of those who experienced it.

“Miss Graham?” said Tracey.

“Charlotte,” she said, correcting him for the twelfth time.

“I just wanted to thank you on behalf of the town of Bridge Harbor for your help. We never could have solved this case without you.”

Aw shucks, it was nothing, thought Charlotte, picturing herself shuffling her feet in embarrassment. That was how Tracey made her feel, only with him the humble country boy bit was for real. She settled for a polite “You’re welcome” and thanked him for requesting her assistance.

“There’s one favor I’d like to ask, Miss Graham—Charlotte,” he said.

“What’s that?”

Pulling a small notebook out of his breast pocket, he tore off a sheet of lined paper and passed it over to her, his mild blue eyes dancing under the visor of his Red Sox cap. “May I please have your autograph, ma’am?”

“Aw shucks,” said Charlotte with a wide smile, signing the paper in her large, bold scrawl.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Drew Padrutt

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3712-9

This edition published in 2016 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com